The Hands
by Albaid
Summary: In the darkness and silence all he can feel is fear and pain, but Neal knows there's someone keeping him safe.
1. Darkness and Silence

**White Collar belongs to USA and I'm only playing with their toys.**

**This is my first fanfiction ever, not to mention White Collar and also the first time I write in English, which is not my mother language and I'm mostly self taught. It has not been Betaed either, so I'm sure there are plenty of grammar mistakes I'm not even aware exist, but I still hope you can enjoy it. Reviews are greatly appreciated and if you notice any mistake, please let me know to correct it.**

At first all he could feel was pain, and with the pain came the fear, primitive, animal, atavistic. He wanted to move, to escape the pain and to escape the fear. To move hurt, but worse was to feel how something kept him in place holding him tightly. Then fear led to panic and he fought with all his might to get rid of whatever it was that kept him trapped in this world of pain, though whatever it was that held him was simply stronger and soon he had exhausted all his power, only leaving him with enough energy to shake uncontrollably there where he laid. Exhausted, defeated, terrified, struggling to get every breath in painful inspirations. Survive.

So whatever it was that only seconds ago had caught him hard, like the tentacles of an octopus who wanted to keep him underwater, was now rubbing his arm up and down, up and down, up and down. Neal realized he could keep pace, inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale and this relieved the burning sensation of suffocation. Still hurt to breathe, but the pain was much more tolerable now that his chest expanded just enough to let the amount of air to fill his lungs with the needed oxygen. The violent shaking of his body was slowly decreasing, from those violent convulsions that seconds before had completely shaken him up to a slight tremor, a constant vibration that still spread through his members. And that thing that rubbed his arm was also losing some of its strength, becoming a sort of caress. Keeping pace.

After the first moment of panic the ex-con tried to organize his head a little, though his thoughts seemed to swim in a soup too thick, leaving him unable to put them in order on the tide of fear, pain and utter confusion that still held him clutched in its talons. Neal hated that feeling, there couldn't be a worst nightmare in his mind that this total lacks of control, not knowing where he was, what had happened, the reason for all the pain that enveloped his body. Neal loved the control, loved the order, to know where everything was, to know everyone was, he loved to calculate all his steps, the steps of those around him and to know in advance where all the exits were. It had been a training process he had spent all his life practicing until it had became a keen instinct that had allowed him to survive. But now he was not in control.

It was then that he realized something, the darkness and silence. It was that and not the pain what had actually panicked him so deeply and now that brief spaces of something as close to lucidity to what he could aspire for moments reached to break the surface of his puzzled brain Neal could tell that he was trapped in some way he could not explain. And to be trapped, a prisoner, was in itself one of his bigger nightmares. And yet it wasn't darkness, the blackness was not like waking up in the middle of the night, but on the contrary, it was a blinding light, a white and red and yellow light that didn't allow him to see and injured his eyes with a dull pain that penetrated into his brain. Neal wanted desperately to escape the light and when blinking hard not only sharpened the pain he tried to shield himself, to hide from that light behind his forearms, but the strength that had kept him from moving before once again prevented the gesture, holding him firmly and bringing his hands to his sides. For a moment the young man felt panic rise from his chest to his throat but with a great deal of that part of his mind that had not yet defeated to animal fear, he managed to control himself and surrender to the gentle force that held him still, more afraid of the burning sensation of suffocation that had previously wrapped him than to feel trapped. He couldn't help but the tremors returned to control his body, not as violent as before, but enough to slowly consume the adrenaline that his first reaction had released.

Yet neither it was silence, it was a mix between a deep murmur, like the sound of a train approaching and a sharp buzzing, penetrating, painful to his ears as the light to his eyes.

Breathing shouldn't be so difficult. As consciousness pushed through, the various pains that embargoed his whole body became more and more noticeable. His eyes, his face, his hands, his head, his back... but mostly his chest, everything hurt. How much he wanted to keep his chest still! That for a moment, even for a single moment he didn't have to be forced to extend and contract it with every breath, because every time he did he felt an acute pain, like daggers that tore inside him with every movement of his ribs. But he knew, he was conscious enough, that breathing was important, very important, that he should continue to do so beyond the pain and to stop was to face the last defeat, and that literally, to keep breathing was a matter of life or death. The hands seemed to have realized his fight, because they had stopped affirming his forearms, his shirt had been opened in one quick motion, without bothering with the buttons and now Neal could feel its touch on his chest. For a split second the icy cold hand contact had been a blessing, a relief, but only for what lasted the flutter of a hummingbird, because then they pressed gently into several parts, taking his pain level to a point that until now he had not thought possible. A howl must have escaped his lips, he was not sure since he could not hear it with the incessant roar in his ears but he was pretty sure it had been, because he had a rough feeling at the bottom of his throat, forcing him to swallow to alleviate it and because the hands were now not so still, and they did not inspire that firm confidence that had shown at the beginning and now they moved fast and nervous, one cradling her cheek and the other gently stroking his forehead , clearing it of the wet strands of his hair as his breathing was back to normal, or what was closer to it .

Neal noticed that his eyes were tightly closed, so hard that it hurt and he slowly relaxed his brow and tried to open them. He had been secretly hoping that somehow some shape would show up to him, something, anything to help him to understand where he was and what had happened, but there was only light, intense, blinding, aching intensely. But more than the pain in his eyes he felt the squeezing and oppressive shadow of entire despair. This had to be a nightmare, it could not be more than a nightmare and he should have woken up by then. The hand still clutching his face dried with his thumb a rebel tear that escaped from his useless eyes.

His energy was slipping, leaving him faster with every second and the idea of succumbing to unconsciousness was more and more tempting with every heartbeat. To sleep would be nice, because then he could wake up elsewhere, where this nightmare had actually finished and where to breathe were not an agonizing struggle. But his body had other ideas and did not include to rest. As an unexpected punch in the stomach that had let him out of air his abdominal muscles and diaphragm contracted in unison, compressing his stomach like a balloon and letting a mouthful of acidic and bitter flavor that flooded his mouth down to his nose. The hands were quick and with a single energetic and efficient movement they turned his body and left him lying on his side, leaning slightly forward, allowing the acidic contents of his stomach, which was sent out in waves with each heave, hit the ground and not to get within his already abused lungs. The retches continued for a long time, even long after every contents of his stomach had been expelled in painful contractions and a cough fit tore his chest and made him feel like his head was going to explode at any moment.

The hands were still there, securing his shoulders and his head to avoid submerging his face in his own vomit, but Neal was not afraid anymore of the force holding him, but let his weight rest on them when they gently turned him around again, this time not completely on his back, but over something softer, slightly keeping him upright. Neal wanted to touch them, to feel them, to recognize them because at this point they were the only thin thread that held him from falling back into the hot panic and he sought them with his own hands. The hands knew and reached his to grasp them gently, but Neal's fingers were strangely swollen and sore so he couldn't make anything with them. He wanted to raise his hands, to touch the face that were probably linked by arms and body to this other hands, but though he tried he could not find the strength to lift them as high, less now that the heaves and coughs had depleted his last reserves and his thoughts were turning increasingly confused and cloudy. Neal could feel how his body was fading, how the tremors decreased in intensity and he knew that to lose consciousness was inevitable, but in the darkness and silence he also knew that at least he was not alone. With his last reserves of energy Neal guided the hand holding his to his face and inhaled as deeply as he could without chocking. He could feel the smell of fear, sweat, burnt and blood, but there was also another scent he knew very well, a mix of wood, leather and grapefruit.

"Peter..."

**Unless some weird inspiration strikes me in between, I think next chapter will be Peter POV and then you'll be able to understand more of what is happening... at least more than Neal. But first let me know if it is worth continuing or I should change my hobby to knitting or something.**


	2. Deafening roar and blinding light

_"I'll go to take a look back"_

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but finally didn't say anything. He wanted to remind Neal that if something came to happen he was not armed, but to be honest he did not expect anything to happen either. They were interviewing a witness to a case of insurance, not in a dangerous undercover mission. On the other hand, he had learned to trust the instincts of his informant and something in Caffrey's eyes told him that for some reason, Neal thought that to walk to the back entrance was worth something.

_"Ok"_ he simply said as he closed the car door.

The agent went to the main entrance, checking the contents of the papers in his folder when, just before reaching the door of the building something captured his attention and made him look up. It was as if suddenly everything had stopped, in which was probably not more than a fraction of a second all the world had became a movie in slow motion with very bad special effects. The slim silhouette of Neal walking away with confidence, the sound of boats, machinery and trucks in that dock area and suddenly… BOOM! The deafening roar and blinding light of the fireball from what was once a car parked at the corner, now converted in a thousand of flamed devils rising to the sky. And in between all of them, Neal, that seemed to float in the air in an eternal moment.

The force of the explosion was sufficient to reach Burke, but he had instinctively, without even thinking, dropped to his knees and covered his head with the folder from the burning metal and plastic pieces that rained from the sky. All around, everything, was a hellish chaos, with the last bits of glass falling from shattered windows and the cacophony of the alarms of dozens cars on a deafening concert. Where Neal had been a second before, all that was left was a black cloud that rolled like a wave and soon wrapped him, leaving Peter completely confused and disoriented before settling slowly leaving him blinded and too worried about breathing in between the cough attacks for what seemed like long minutes, but surely not more a few seconds, before he could be able to stand up again.

The first thing that terrified Peter was what he didn't see. With still bloodshot and tearing from smoke, dust and cough eyes, the agent desperately searched for his partner in the last place he had seen him, but Neal was anywhere to be seen, as if the explosion would have vaporized him completely. Peter needed several seconds to clear his eyes and to let the cloud dissipate, before to recognize the familiar shape lying on his back, much further away from where he had seen him the last time. All he wanted to do was to run to him, but years of training and discipline in the FBI had not been in vain and before even stand up he searched desperately for the cell phone in his pocket, unlocked it and pressed the speed dial Nº 3.

_"Boss_" He was received by the nice and frank tone of Agent Jones. Good Jones, who always answered on the first ring.

"_Car bomb in the dock 17! Man down! MAN DOW! Call an ambulance NOW_!" He didn't wait for an answer from Jones, later he wouldn't even remember if he had cut the call, if he had saved the phone on his pocket or if it had been dropped on the spot. Before the last word Peter was already moving, running like an arrow next to Neal's prone body.

"_Shit, shit, shit!"_ He did not even try to explain how and why they ended up in this situation; all he knew was that Neal was covered with debris, closer than he had wanted. How far he had been thrown backwards? 12, 15 feet, maybe more ... Neal Caffrey, always being so spectacular, now flying as a Matrix character .

On a couple moves he cleared a few of the bigger pieces of trash, but didn't get to search for a pulse. It was obvious that the ex-con was breathing, if gasping like a fish out of water could be called breathing.

_"Neal! Neal!"_ He tried to wake the man, giving him light pats on the cheek, but Caffrey seemed to be completely out of it, with a pool of blood spreading slowly under his head. It must have been a pretty forced landing. Peter would had wanted to check it better, but the ghost of spinal injuries prevented him to try to analyze the extent of the injury or even to stop the bleeding, whatever it was would have to wait for the arrival of the paramedics. For now the only damage assessment simply noted how all the exposed skin of the face, hands and neck was red as after a severe sunburn, a mute evidence of the heat ball that had engulfed Neal for seconds.

_"Mmmmm"_ The kid seemed to come to his senses and for that Peter thanked all the saints that came to his mind.

_"That is, quiet, all is fine, help is on the way," _whispered the agent, but the twinkling eyes of Neal did not seem to focus on anything, lost in space, the pupils dilated with fear. _"Hey, hey, calm down!"_ The consultant was increasingly restless and the uncoordinated movement of arms and legs that had initially been a relief, now proved to be a concern. When Neal could rest his elbows on the floor and for a moment seemed about to get up, Peter was forced to hold him and to keep his shoulders tightly in place. _"Neal, quiet, you'll hurt yourself, stay still for the love of God!" _He didn't need a medical degree to know that someone who had suffered such trauma had to stay put until specialized help arrived.

But Neal, of course... was Neal, he seemed unwilling to cooperate, but instead fought with animal power to escape his grip. Peter needed to load all his weight to pin him to the floor, forgetting the reassurance words to devote to insult with impunity until the young man forces were exhausted. The agent did not have time to relax, noticing that the look on his gaze was still lost in nothingness, eyes still wide open and showing blue irises with a strangely clear tone, almost ghostly. Then the mouth was open and the nostrils dilated without air entering or leaving by any of them.

_"Oh, come on, Neal! This is no time to throw a tantrum every time that I don't let you do what you want!"_ But Peter in turn could not help the sharp tone on his voice, betraying the fear that begun to increase. _"Breathe, can you? Caffrey you're smart, I'm sure you can remember how to do it. Inhale, exhale... inhale, exhale..." _Burke didn't know if Neal was even listening, his gaze still without anchoring on his, but instinctively began keeping pace with his left hand on the right arm of Neal. Whatever it was did not matter, because it seemed to be working, slowly Caffrey was keeping time with his breathing and his tense muscles were relaxing, with only a constant tremor under his hands.

Neal's eyes had a look of horror the agent would have never thought possible before, the great Neal Caffrey, master of conmans. His gaze seemed no longer just unfocused, but also now his eyes danced from one point to another without looking at anything for even a second and Neal also blinked hard, as if some garbage had entered in his eyes.

_"Whoa, my friend! Didn't we have already agreed on the issue of not moving?"_ Neal tried to raise his arms and probably would have rubbed his face with them if his partner had not got them to stop him. These burns did not seem serious, but had to hurt, there was no need to neither exacerbate things nor now hurt his eyes if something was into them. _"That's it, good boy, very well, good boy"_ Peter was aware that he was talking like he did to Satchmo, but words of comfort have never been his strong side and Neal didn't seem to mind, on the contrary, he had soon ceased to fight and had left his arms relaxed at his sides, giving up on resisting.

Peter allowed himself a moment of respite; even adjusted his position to a more comfortable one, but the relief was short lived. It seemed obvious that Neal was, at least, confused. Until now there had been no attempt to respond and the blood kept flowing, slowly but steadily, from the wound in the back of his head. But his breathing was what really worried him more, at least he was breathing and that in itself was a breakthrough for which Peter was immensely grateful, but it was nevertheless extremely laborious and a hissing and wet sound escaped with each exhalation. In what seemed like an extremely forced inspiration that made Neal involuntary flinch from pain, Peter could not resist anymore and pulled the jacket of the young man to give a better look. A small blood stain spread just under the pocket of his shirt, as if a red ink pen had burst there, but unmistakably blood. Worried, he didn't bother to unbutton his shirt, in one movement he just tore it, leaving the buttons to just to jump into the air.

_"Shit, shit, shit!"_ Peter's stomach clenched like a fist and for a moment his head swam at the sight of a small piece of metal, an insidious shrapnel out of Neal's chest like a knife without handle as precisely sunken that barely bled to the outside. What it was doing inside the body of his partner was another story, and only now Peter started to think on who knows what other internal damage may have been caused by the impact of the explosion. He did not mean to move the metal shrapnel, but tried to assess some of the damage this could have caused, perhaps estimating its size and tried to feel as gently as he could in his surroundings.

But gently was not sufficient enough. Neal let out a scream so piercing, so from deep in his throat that immediately froze all attempts _"Oh God, Oh God, sorry, sorry buddy, breathe, that is, quiet Neal, you're doing fine, you're doing fine" _Not being aware of doing so Peter had taken Neal's face, holding his head after he had arched his neck with the deep cry, while with the other hand Peter tried to clear the forehead from the black curls, now soaked in sweat.

When Neal's breathing returned to a more or less constant rate the ex-con slowly opened his eyes and Peter, now closer to his face, was more able to better appreciate the lost gaze. He didn't know if it was just because of the concussion or if there was another type of damage, but the agent realized that Neal definitely was not seeing and that this was causing him a great deal of fear ._ "Neal, quiet, quiet. I am here and the cavalry is coming. Everything will be okay, I promise"_ And although he did not know if Caffrey was getting any of it, Peter could not fail to provide all the relief that was on his hands, including drying the tear of pain or fear that had escaped from his eyes.

He needed to call Jones; He didn't know how much time passed. One, five, ten minutes? But they needed help and they needed it urgent. Burke didn't even get to search for his cell phone before Neal's body bend in two and his mouth filled with vomit. Peter movement was simply instinctive, it was too late to worry about spinal injuries and breathing was a priority, the reaction was fast and apparently Neal had not get to aspirate the vomit, expelling it in obviously painful heaves until there was only a trickle of yellow bile, which ended falling to the floor when the retches were replaced by a heartbreaking coughing.

Neal did not fight against him anymore. When everything was over he let him to be gently guided and Peter settled back so his consultant could remain lying on his legs, with his head resting lightly on his chest. It had been scary and stressful, not only for Neal but also for Peter and now it looked like the first one was paler, feebler and more absent. He was losing him, Peter knew he was losing Neal and he could do nothing about it, so when Peter saw his hands moving, looking for something to grip he took them between his, whispering words of encouragement that he didn't know if Neal could understand, but it did not care, because them relieved him too. The kid weakly guided his hand to his own face and closed his eyes, holding it there for a few seconds.

"Peter ..." Neal barely muttered.

And the FBI agent's heart cringed, because it was the first sign of awareness of Neal and the last before he completely lost consciousness.


	3. The Raft

**A/N: I'm very sorry that to upload this took longer than expected, specially because it was almost ready past week and only needed a final revision when I had to attend to an emergency, a literal emergency. After then I could not find the time nor the energy to connect until today. I hope you stick with the story, because I know it's not an easy one to follow and it can be confusing at times... but the protagonists are confused so it can't be any other way.**

**And thanks for all the reviews, I'm amused of the warm welcome for a first story and it's very encouraging to keep writing.**

************************************************** *********************

He wanted so much to rest, to be left in peace even if for a little moment, not to be patted on the cheek, not to be moved nor to be adjusted. All he wanted was to focus on Peter's hand, tightly holding his and to abandon as to an anchor to the sense of security that it inspired to him. He didn't want to open his eyes, there was no sense, but they still forced him to do it, once and two and three times. They did not understand that all his energy needed to be concentrated in the hand and to try to forget everything else was what kept all that pain away. There were many hands, but Neal trusted only one of them.

They put him on his side, slipped something behind his back, around his neck, straps went through his forehead, while other things were securely fastened to his face. All of it he tolerated because Peter was there and therefore nothing could be bad. It was Peter Burke, the one who always knew where to find him and now would free him from this strange confinement within himself. But when they tried to trap him by wrapping him with straps, when they took the hand that was like a beacon in the dark night then Neal panicked in a second. He didn't know what he was doing nor why, he knew that he kicked and flailed his hands and his feet collided with things more or less hard and that all he wanted was to get rid of everything and to run away, but he did not know where to and while his head spin he sparsely recognize where was up and where was down. But somehow he knew it was Peter the one who held him, it was Peter and not all the other hands the one that gripped his arms and shook it firmly, once, not strong enough to harm, but strong enough to surprise him. Peter was angry, Peter wanted him to stop fighting and now, less than ever, Neal could allow the agent to leave him, so he forced himself to calm and obey.

"Please... Peter... Don't go ... Peter... Don't go away... Don't... Don't go..." He could barely get the words out of his mouth, he could barely make out enough air to emit any sound and just to try caused an intense pain that left him further breathless. He didn't know if he was being heard, if the agent could only read his lips, if what he said made any sense but he really needed Peter to listen, that the older man understood how desperately he needed his touch. Neal Caffrey, always with a childish smile on the lips, walking the world with fluid and graceful movements, but always with the emotion raw in his eyes, hidden under a quick hand gesture, a game with the hat or a sharp remark. Peter had seen him desolated, had seen him desperate, had seen him furious, but perhaps this was the first time he saw him not only scared, but genuinely terrified. Neal was beyond all shame, all embarrassment and just needed that Peter realized with as much intensity he depended on to keep him by his side now.  
Neal's mind vaguely registered that he was being moved, roused, downed, pushed and prodded, but nothing of that really worried him because above all else, what terrified Neal the most was the idea that if he let the hand go, then he would not be able to find it again. He would be completely lost, a board floating in the ocean, an astronaut drifting in space, completely at the mercy of forces he didn't understand, that enveloped him in agony, who bore in his mind, trampling his body and putting a black, heavy hood on his senses.

He felt immensely cold, a coldness that climbed from his members but now was reaching to the depths of his core. Breathing was not only painful, but increasingly difficult, his lungs filling with fluid and rivaling head to head with the air and the latter was losing the race Then Neal understood everything, he was drowning, his shipwrecked raft was not enough and he was completely sunk in black and icy waters. That was why he could not hear, why he could not see, why he could no longer breathe.


	4. Capable Hands

**A/N: I confess, writing this has been really hard, not only time wise, which by itself is a struggle, but trying to keep with the "spirit" of the fic. I study a career somewhat related to health, so the first time I wrote this chapter it had more technical stuff than what I wanted, because I want this to be more "from the gut". So I let it rest for a week and practically rewrote it from zero now. I don't really know how the next chapter will be, because I will ****have**** to get more technical and, lets face it, I will have to take a lot of artistic licenses to reach my goal over what I already know of medicine... **

Since he had pronounced his name, Neal had closed his eyes and his body was limp over him, while Peter still repeated reassurance words and held the hand of his young consultant firmly taken on his ones. Neal didn't seem to be already aware of his surroundings and it terrified Peter, if not for the slight pressure between his fingers vaguely telling him that somewhere, the kid knew he was still there.

The sound of sirens was more than reassuring; it was a real bath of warm water over his tense muscles. Peter was more than a boss, he was a leader, he knew what it was to be in charge and it was natural to him, but this situation was beyond any of his capabilities, far beyond the point where he knew he was in control and to know that more capable hands than his would take the charge of saving the life of his partner was literally breathing again after a long time holding his breath.

"Are there more people injured" Asked one of the paramedics as they set their equipment next to the both of them.

"No, no one who I had seen, at least." Said Peter, and if whoever was nearby had been the responsible for this, he better be dead.

"Are you, sir?" The paramedic raised an eyebrow watching the agent's suit covered in ashes.

"No, no, I'm fine, just worry about my partner" but the answer was almost unnecessary, by then Neal was already being checked and prepared to stabilize. A paramedic woman held firmly her patient's head while another helped Peter to move out from under him, trying to alter as little as possible to the injured man.

"Mister, sir, can you tell us your name?"

"Neal Caffrey" Answered Peter, to which the paramedic ran a disapproving look at the agent, as to a schoolchild answering the question directed to a classmate.

"Glasgow 8" reported the professional, while she checked the pupils and tried to get some response from Neal, as the others proceeded to secure him to a spinal board .

"Sir" Peter was so focused on what they were doing to his consultant that it took him a couple of seconds to realize that this time they were addressing him. They needed him to drop the firm grip of the hand still holding Neal's to finish with the straps and be able to upload him to the gurney that waited next to them.

The reaction was immediate, as if the hand of Peter would have been a lock to trigger some mechanism within Neal. In the exact second the agent released it the conman started kicking and flailing as if his life depended on it and probably would have screamed too if he had could, but the wrenching drowned moans coming out of his throat spoke for itself. The paramedics tried to hold him to stop him from hurting himself further, besides having already removed the IV and oxygen mask, but Neal boasted a force that no one thought possible just seconds ago and, not being fast enough to grab hands and feet, all they were getting was to be kicked and beaten mercilessly. But to put some sense into his CI was something that was well within the skill's set of Peter, and a very practiced one by the way, so in an instant the agent firmly took Neal's shoulders and gave a brief and abrupt shake, which probably was against all medical advice, but it did not seem to be important at the time.

"Enough!"

And as suddenly as it had begun, Neal's body dropped limp on the table, eyes wide open, sweat-soaked forehead and hands like claws clinging to the arms of Peter.

"Please... Peter... don't go... Peter... don't leave... don't ... don't leave..." More than words, they were a mere breath. Neal's eyes still open, intently fixed on some lost point in the sky with a tenaciously furrowed brow, as if he needed all his efforts, all his concentration to remember the lines of a play.

Then any defense that the agent had built around him, any mask of sarcasm, of anger, of whatever, fell to pieces under the same anguish of his hurt and scared friend.

"Neal I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I have your hand, you see? I won't leave. You are not alone; I won't leave you alone...

Without even the need to ask, like an unspoken agreement among all the present, as something which by then was too obvious to require explanation or justification the paramedics adjusted the remaining straps, this time leaving Neal's hands free so he could hold onto Peter all he wanted. Neither was it necessary for Peter to ask if they would let him ride in the ambulance, his ticket already booked in advance and something that no one, never in a million years, would dare to question.

The doors closed and the vehicle was started, but the work was far from over, between dizzying spins, the sound of the siren and the numbers the EMTs didn't stop shouting at each other Peter was mesmerized by the frenzy that surrounded him. The medical staff busy in measuring things and injecting others and holding other stuff onto the body of Neal, who despite the oxygen mask wrapped to his face seemed to gasp with increasing difficulty, the hiss of his labored breathing increasingly replaced with a wet and bubbly sound. Peter's heart jumped to his throat when Neal's chest stopped moving, the hand holding his losing what little strength it had left and even worse, a string of bloody foam escaped from the corner of his mouth to get lost under his ear.

"Oxygen saturation is falling!"

"His lungs are collapsing!"

"Preparing to intubate!"

Peter could only watch in silence as they introduced a tube down the throat of the ex-con, too focused on wondering how in less than 15 minutes things had reached this point. His eyes were fixed on the metal piece still stuck in the bare chest of his partner, as if it were looking and laughing at him.

"That thing... that thing is killing him." He swallowed; even he could tell he was in shock.

The paramedic in charge, the same that had silently rebuked him for answering the questions to Neal stared at him, this time with her eyes full of understanding and compassion.

"No sir, that is the only thing that had been keeping him alive until we arrived."

_

**As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. If you only put OK at least it will tell me someone is actually reading this.**


	5. Chapter 5

The emergence of Jones and Diana on his visual field was what brought back Peter from the lethargy in which he was engulfed. The male agent handed him the keys of his car and Peter smiled for the first time in a long time. He could always count on his team, even in those small details that he even had no time to think of yet, as the fact that his car had been left at the scene and he had not even remembered its existence until this minute. Diana handed him a cup of coffee, sat down beside him on a chair in the waiting room and for a long time nobody said anything, another small gesture by which Peter was immensely grateful. But he knew they were as concerned as he was, with their lips tightened and frowns who spoke of the questions they did not know how to do. And what was worse, he didn't even have the answers.

"He is in surgery right now; it's all that doctors have said so far." He finally informed to his team. They were good kids; they deserved at least some response.

"But ... " Diana didn't dare to finish the question

"It's bad."- Peter didn't dare to finish the answer either. How to explain the moments of terror he had felt in the ambulance while Neal was choking on his own blood? When his heart had stopped beating and they had to revive him not once, but twice? His own mind was still struggling to understand the concept that Neal's lungs had basically blow up with the explosion and he had survived only thanks to a piece of metal shrapnel that had let the air out of his chest as help arrived. And that was only the most urgent concern, who knows how much hidden damage the bomb had provoked that was still on his body, who knows from what pain and fear Neal had asked Peter to protect him with such desperate hold onto his hand.

People always talk about the long hours waiting for someone to get out of surgery, but now, barely 24 hours later he could barely remember any of it and for what it's worth, it could have been 15 minutes or a couple of hours. Perhaps it had helped that the EMT had already called the hospital in advanced and the operation room was ready when the ambulance arrived and that they were received by an army of medics that worked on him all at the same time; or maybe it was that Peter had been on a daze, briefly interrupted by the arriving of his colleagues and his wife. On the other hand the head surgeon had explained to him that there wasn't much more to do by the moment than to stabilize Neal and that nothing that were not life threatening at the moment would be addressed later when he were stronger.

Stabilize. Peter was strongly starting to hate that word. And what was life threatening anyways? It's not that he could not understand the importance of breathing and keeping his heart beating, but doctors seemed to disregard that some of those things that they had left for later were as much of Neal's life like his heart. Peter had needed his entire FBI Agent mask when the doctor had called him to explain Neal's situation. They had been able to keep Neal's lung from collapsing completely, which by itself had been a whole battle, but the explosion had also affected all organs filled with air. While his intestines looked ok enough, his eardrums had ruptured and at least one of them would require surgery for repair. The burns of his face and hands were superficial for the most part, but the corneas had been burnt too and a specialist would take care of them as soon as possible. If that were not enough, Neal had landed hard on his back, no bones broken but a massive bruising and a brain a little swollen. When the doctor left with a hand shake and reassuring words Peter collapsed on the chair like if someone had kicked him on the gut. The thought of Neal laying on the ground, not only confused and in pain, but also deaf and blind… that thought had been so overwhelming that Peter had needed to go to the bathroom and retch for a whole minute before washing his face, comb his hair with the fingers and prepare Agent Burke to share the information with those gathered in the waiting room.

Peter had been told that Neal would be kept on an induced coma by the time being, the extent of the trauma too much to bear for the young man's body on his own. It was unnerving for the agent, for whom nothing would be right until his consultant talked to him and he saw him fidgeting with the switches and knobs of the machinery surrounding him. Doctors kept talking about taking one step at the time, to concentrate on vital functions, on blood results, on odd numbers, on gray shadows on films that only medics could see and basically on things that could be summarized on acronyms like EEG, ECG, MRI, USG, BP, HR and BR. They kept saying him to be optimistic, that this or that was improving or at least stable, but for Peter all of it was meaningless without Neal being… Neal. Like if the conman could be described on a few numbers and letters!

They would not let him stay with Neal on ICU. He could see him through the glass window, though, and from time to time a gentle nurse would let him in to hold his hands for a few minutes before they needed to clean something o change something or draw a sample or to take him somewhere to a test. Those short moments would relax him to no end, even when the sight of Neal with a tube getting out of his throat, even with the noise of the ventilator breathing for him, even with all the other tubes and wires and even with the bandage covering his eyes because Peter could now understand the importance of the physical contact to which his partner had desperately cling to and would himself close his eyes and rely on it for assurance. Sometimes he could feel, even through the bandages, a slight twitch of Neal's fingers. Perhaps induced coma or not, concussion or not his friend was there, somewhere, and he needed to let him know he was at his side.

*************************  
For the most part, it was hard to tell if he was awake or not. If anything, there was more or less pain and the dreams would become more or less weird.

There was this dream that would repeat once and again where he was in a storm in the middle of the ocean, for most of time he was submerged in black waters, thick as petroleum and he couldn't move in the dense substance, too heavy for his arms and legs to swim on. He felt himself drowning, desperate for oxygen that wouldn't reach his lungs. In his nightmare he knew he couldn't breathe, but he never died, trapped in this eternal purgatory.

Sometimes he was able to reach the surface, but swimming was barely enough to keep his body out of the sea spray, the giant waves throwing his body against black rocks that shattered his bones and made Neal cry in pain, cries that nobody could ever hear under the lightning and thunder of the storm. But then, on those rare and terrorizing moments the lighting would draw a silhouette against the blackness. A shore, an island, a ship, Neal didn't know, but there was something to swim to.

******************************

"Honey" Elizabeth hugged Peter from behind and rested her chin against his shoulder. This was the first time she had came to the ICU floor and for a while couldn't say anything else, she needed some minutes to regroup after the sight of Neal's body. This wasn't going to be easy. "Hon, Peter, you need to rest, you have barely slept on the past two days."

"But…"

"He needs you, I know" Elle looked at him directly at the eyes "But he will need you even more when he awakes"

"What if he wakes up and he's alone?"

"He won't. The doctor told us they are going to keep him heavily sedated for at least 48 more hours. Use that time, charge your batteries, sleep, take a long bath and eat properly."

Peter looked for a long time at the figure lying in the bed on the other side of the glass. "He was so terrified…"

Elizabeth gently guided him to a chair and kneeled in front of him.

"Honey, everybody has a duty here. Nurses and doctors will make sure he heals; Clinton and Diana are already planning how to catch the bastard that did this; you will take care of Neal and I, I will take care of you." She stood up, with Peter's hand into hers. "Peter, you already heard the doctor, they had barely started to treat him; he doesn't need you to waste on the first three days"

"I guess you are right" Peter stood up and hugged his wife. "I'm going to say good-bye and then I'm leaving"

"It's ok, Hon."

"But I'm still coming to check on him first thing in the morning"

"Of course you are."

"I know, I know, it's a marathon, not a sprint"


End file.
